


This is the War Room

by SodiumBicarb



Category: Suits (TV), White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SodiumBicarb/pseuds/SodiumBicarb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Mike is actually a CIA agent, but still an absolute puppy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this prompt somewhere and literally couldn't sleep until I wrote something for it. I have no idea where the story's going, so please bear with me. 
> 
> Also, nothing belongs to me, pretty much ever.

 

Part I: The Beginning

 

Mike was grateful to Reynolds for picking him off the sidewalk after being expelled, and he was honored to be recruited into the CIA, but sometimes he wondered if his boss didn't just pull a name out of a hat and that poor schmuck was him. The first time she asked for the improbable (it had such a low success rate that it could be declared “officially impossible”), she had sent him into the Yukon at the cusp of winter, demanding that he track a shipment of arms. Mike met with a contact, found twenty shipments that could be 'The One,' and then had to bring a brush with him to sweep away his snow tracks. He couldn't even cry because tears stuck to skin.

The second time she asked for the improbable, it was to infiltrate a gang, as if Mike's pale ass and skinny ties could possible fit in. So Mike played the 'I'm-in-debt-and-desperate' card, brushed up on his anatomy, and was a mob doctor for a while. It went well because Mike could spout off any facts to make him sound legitimate, and if he nicked some organs or misdiagnosed some gangsters, well, that was just going above-and-beyond on the job.

This time, however, Reynolds wanted him to play fake lawyer. Okay, he could do that; he took the LSATS, liked to stay updated on laws... But at a law firm. A top tier one, where people knew what they were doing, and did it well. He wasn't going to be one of those greasy lawyers that were usually paid with favors and under-the-table handjobs, oh no, Mike Ross was about to be an upright lawyer. Well, as upright as lawyers could get.

"No," were the first words out of his mouth, followed swiftly by, "I'm sorry; I'll do it. Don't shoot me," in a whimper.

Pearson Hardman.

* * *

Reynolds briefed him on anyone he might meet there, from senior partners to the custodial staff. Then, as if combing through people's dirty laundry wasn't embarrassing enough, she gave him a box of GQ magazines with the articles on suits bookmarked.

Mike tried to hide the ketchup stain on his tie.

"She's right."

Mike glared up at the intruder.

"You're in the wrong alphabet soup," he groused. Neal Caffrey chuckled while casually placing his hands in his own impeccably pressed pants.

"That's how I made Peter the first time he tried to catch me. His suit. Cheap wool, cheaper buttons, very affordable on a government salary," he shrugged, subtly straightening out the seam lines.  

In his rumpled, cheaper-than-Peter Burke's suit, Mike pouted.

He may have widened his eyes into a classic puppy-dog gaze.

Exasperated, Neal gave in.

"I know a guy."

* * *

 "Neal, I thought you were a good thief. I expected something exquisite, a Van Gogh, perhaps, not some child's finger painting."

"René," Neal playfully admonished. They hugged in a way Mike thought was equally over-friendly and professional. René's hands smoothed over stitches and Neal unabashedly felt the material covering the older man’s shoulders.

It was like watching a suit-lovers' mating dance. Or sexual harassment.

"One of my earliest suits. I believe I sold it to Mr. Ellington decades ago," René hummed.

"Suits well-made are timeless," was that a wink Mike saw? Really, Neal?

Neal pecked René on the cheek and gestured towards Mike.

"Think of him as a blank canvas."

René snorted.

"The skinniest canvas I've ever seen. Where did you find him?"

"In his bed," Mike quipped.

René’s eyes twinkled in humor before he gestured towards the center of the store.

"We'll make you into someone worthy of Neal's bedsheets."

* * *

"Now if only I could get Peter to do the same," Neal sighed contently as they exited the shop. Suits were to Neal as tuna to a starving cat.

Mike trailed behind him, shell-shocked by the staggering amount of money he just spent on one suit. One. With four more in the making. The only highlight was that René gave him the green light to wear his skinny ties, even though Neal protested.

_"Skinny, skinny, skinny, ass and thighs of a horse. (Rene gave said appendages a quick slap). Thicker ties will make him look like a child in his parent's clothes. These ties will make him slender, like a tall weed, if weeds had asses like this._

_Oh god._

_Mike blushed redder than his tie._

_"But nothing compared to mine," Neal joked, that narcissist._

_"You were born with that. He cycles, yes?"_

_"I'm a lawyer," Mike said sternly, with what Reynolds once called his 'angry puppy' look._

_Ren_ _é shrugged._

_"Pearson Hardman represents me."_

_Mike scowled._

"Why didn't they ask you to do this job? You'd fit in," Mike asked around a mouth full of hot dog.

Neal raised an eyebrow.

"Other than the fact that I'm in the wrong agency?"

Mike smiled teasingly.

"You already know how to swindle people."

"Ouch. You hurt me, Mikey. Besides, most of your clients are probably acquaintances of mine. They'd blow my cover."

* * *

Mike woke pleasantly, with freshly laundered sheets that didn't he didn't have to wrestle the machine downstairs for, and with sunlight warming his face. His pillow was wonderfully plump, and Mike hated to leave it.

This was the first time the agency splurged on a nice hotel room for him. It wasn’t as nice as the Chilton, but it was free from dust mites, which was all he could ask for.  

It was several hours before his interview with Pearson Hardman, but in the meantime, he had a recon job.

Danny Longines. Surly, elderly man with a penchant for slipping more than STDs into people’s pockets. At first it had been harmless information, office gossip, really, but as he climbed the corporate ladder, the secrets he divulged were becoming traitorous.

And after slipping the knowledge of who had a government contract and where the headquarters was going to be? Well, he just climbed the CIA’s most wanted list (Homeland version).

Mike doubled-checked the contents of his briefcase before he left. Inside, with Tetris-like precision, his sniper rifle lay, cradled in its foam case, and next to it was a syringe, just in case the op needed a more _personal_ touch. He’d never needed it, but appreciated being prepared.

The briefcase was a comforting weight in his hands as he exited his room and headed towards the Chilton.

* * *

Third floor.

Sixth floor.

Eighth floor.

Mike evened out his breath as the elevator climbed slowly, and made a show of popping his shoulders as he reached his floor.

_Ding._

He was the only person who got off.

The carpet muffled his steps as he made his way towards Longines’ room. A quick gaze reassured him that there was a lack of surveillance. There was, however, two men nearby.

_Another op?_

It could be the FBI, Homeland Security, anyone in the alphabet really. The man in the suit didn’t hide his gun well, if at all, and the bellhop stank of suspiciousness.

“Hi,” Mike smiled. “I was wondering about the pools here. How are they?”

“Yes, sir. We are the _Chilton_. They are exquisite-“ and _closed,_ Mike remembered. Suspicious that an employee of a place like this wouldn’t know basic information like that. This wasn’t a Motel 8. 

“Alright,” another beaming smile, “Thanks _so much._ ”

He calmly strode away, opened the stair doors, and bolted.

_BANG!_

That was probably the bellhop, trying to catch up. Nope. Mike was made for this.

How many floors? One more.

“Rick Sorkin?”

Mike burst into the room just as there was a no-show, and he took the chance.

“Yes, yes. That’s me,” he panted.

The redhead was not impressed.

“Mr. Sorkin, you are fifteen minutes late. Why should I let you in?” She was furious. This was his only chance; he couldn’t tell her that he was mistaken and go to his own scheduled interview, especially since the bellhop was likely to burst in at any time.

“I guarantee that I’ll be the most interesting interview you’ve had all day.”

* * *

It was going well. Mike had suitably impressed Specter with his brain, but it was probably the gun that did most of the work. Just as he stood up to shake the lawyer’s hand, the briefcase busted open, spewing his precious Mary onto the thankfully soft carpet.

Specter raised an eyebrow.

“Do you plan on winning cases by assassinating the opposing council?” Specter’s voice was tight.

Reynolds was going to kill him.

“I- I, ugh, can explain.”

He really wished he could. They prepared for every eventually at the Agency, but no one could account for sheer bad luck.

“I…”

He was caught with a _sniper rifle_ , not a gun; he couldn’t say that he was pro-guns or paranoid. And that was the only plausible reason for a civilian to be carry a weapon. Unless he was a terrorist.

“You’re either a terrorist or working for someone,” Specter mused. He looked… interested?

“Uh…”

“You don’t seem like a terrorist to me, but you’re even less likely to be an agent.” Specter stared him down. “Even if you’re wearing one of René’s, you’re still a kid.”

“Hey!” It wasn’t his fault that he had a baby face.

“Is it confidential? Can you not tell me? Not even a hint?” Specter looked gleeful as he crouched next to the syringe.

“Don’t touch that!” Mike reached for it.

Specter withdrew his hands and gazed a little harder at Mike.

“Definitely an agent. A terrorist probably would have let me touch that.”

“Maybe I’m just a bad terrorist,” he responded petulantly.

“I do love the smell of napalm in the morning,” Specter hummed wistfully.

Mike’s eyes narrowed.

“Maybe we should put you on the list.”

“Only if it’s the ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’ list.”

“ _The stuff that dreams are made of_ ,” Mike smirked.

“ _You can’t handle the truth, rookie._ ”

Mike perked up.

“Rookie? Does that I mean I get the job?”

“Are you even a lawyer?” Specter asked curiously.

Mike blinked.

“Uh-“

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a way better sniper.”

“Duly noted.” Specter didn’t look impressed.

“Anyone who checks will see that I have a degree,” he responded easily.

Specter snorted.

“But you don’t know anyone there.”

Mike hung his head.

“No.”

Specter gave a particularly large sigh before dropping into his seat gracefully.

“Are you setting me up?”

“What? No!” Mike gave the man a puzzled look.

Specter was silent for several minutes, but apparently reached a conclusion.

“I’m about to hire a kid who has just confessed that he didn’t go to law school, and who carries around a rifle. At the very least, this is fraud and grounds for disbarment. At its worst, I’m a traitor to the country.”

“The Agency will back me up.”

“Why would I risk that, especially without a formal request? Why would I help you infiltrate my firm?” Specter challenged.

“Because someone’s trying to destroy it.”

It was so quiet that Mike hard the anxious shuffle from behind the door; they’d been inside for twice as long as the allotted time.

Mike couldn’t read people as well as Neal or Mozzie was, but he could get by.

“Hello.” He thrust his hand out, “I’m Mike Ross, not Rick Sorkin, but I do have an interview appointment, so we should probably tell the redhead. I’m a CIA agent, and I never went to Harvard, but I know more about the law than those goons out there put together. The agency is putting me undercover as a preventative measure because my boss’ boss was a graduate from Harvard Law and has a soft spot the size of Harvard for this firm. It’s nice to meet you.” Mike kept his hand out and waited.

Specter let out of guffaw. Like, a full-bellied laugh that made the briefing photo of him look like a stern Renaissance painting.

“You should have started off with that kid; we would have finished this interview twenty minutes earlier.”

Mike stared in disbelief and retracted his hand.

“Does this mean I get the job?”

“Yeah, kid. You got it.”

* * *

 

"I got the job?" he told Reynolds while simultaneously texting Neal.

_'got the job!!!!'_

"Never doubted you, blondie," Reynolds snorted, but Mike heard the laughter in her voice, like bright comets that came once a century.

"Thanks."


	2. Pearson Hardman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine.

"Rachel Zane: paralegal and apparently your tour guide. Don't ask about my parents; don't flirt with me," someone said as soon as he stepped off the elevator.

The daughter of Robert Zane. Paralegal at Pearson Hardman for several years. Took and failed the LSATs. Attractive, but also a woman on a mission.

Mike respected that. After all, Grammy always said that heels that high were never just for walking. 

* * *

"I'm surprised. You're the first associate to not hit on me." Rachel smiled as they arrived at the bullpen. She’d been on guard at first, when she thought that he was playing hard to get, but it took until the second conference room for her to realize that Mike simply wasn’t interested.

He was busy staring at people, putting 3D bodies to 2D words, busy making escape routes, and finding places to place surveillance devices (if necessary). He didn’t take notes, which annoyed her, but he wasn’t bored either.

"Mmh, never good to date at the workplace," he replied with a nonchalant shrug. Her face lit up in comradery.

“I wish these other guys thought like that.”

Mike took in the number of associates running about and whistled.

"I bet your nickname for this place is the pigpen," he joked. She gave a surprised giggle and pointed towards an office with her name on it.

"Oh god, not fair!" he whined. He could smell the BO from the bullpen already. He must have made a face because she immediately followed his thought with, “I keep some Febreeze in there."

He gave her a glance.

"Personally, I like using vodka and water."

"You might need more vodka than water," she nudged.

"Is that an invitation?" She hesitated before realizing that he hadn’t meant anything more than a joke.  
  
"Nice try, Ross," she smiled and shooed him towards the other associates.  

He waved as he left. Maybe being here wouldn’t be so bad. 

* * *

 

"Mike Ross."

Mike kept his earbuds in and looked up at Louis Litt. Ballet and Arts aficionado.

"Hi, we haven't met yet. Louis Litt, I manage the associates."

"Nice to meet you." Mike went back to proofing. Louis stared a moment longer at the pile of brief he hadn’t handed out.

"I don't think you understand; you're an associate, so I tell you what to do."

"I'm  _Harvey's_  associate;  _he_ tells me what to do." Unless Reynolds contradicted Harvey’s orders.  
  
From his peripheral, he saw the man's face turn red before he barked, "Drug test, now, Ross." Louis made to grab his arm, but Mike moved away at the last moment, and Louis hung awkwardly over the cubicle.   
  
Mike's grin was shark-like.   
  
"Lead the way _,_ Louis." 

* * *

Mike didn’t mind the testing; Reynolds drug tested him every day for a month after she dug him out from underneath Trevor’s pile of shit. He entered the bathroom, did his business, and left after sending a pleasant smile Louis’ way.

If only every interaction was as easy to manipulate.  

Kyle Durant tried to assert his seniority the first hour Mike appeared at the cubicles, and when he heard that Mike was _the_ Harvey Specter’s associate, well, things spiraled downwards.

There was the ‘light ribbing,’ which Mike had poisoned lesser men for.

There was the attempted changing of his home screen, a failure because Mike’s passwords were literally a random jumble of numbers and letters, and he was trained to never leave his computer vulnerable, even for a bathroom break.

Thirdly, there were Kyle’s attempts to make the other associate turn on Mike, which worked pretty well.

‘This is like the second grade all over again,’ Mike groaned into his sandwich. Kyle Durant was basically a non-drug dealing version of Trevor, and Mike had no qualms about sending this version packing.

* * *

 The funny thing was that working at a law firm was more stressful than working for the CIA. Firstly, Mike always had to lie to clients, such as purposely losing four games to a client, Wyatt, which took more brainpower than he was willing to admit because Wyatt was  _bad._  Sure, he lied plenty of times with the agency, but they were big lies, with intricate backstories that kept Mike’s overactive brain occupied. Also, if this was a CIA job, it would have taken three seconds for Mike to put a bullet through the man's head.

"I need you to file the patent.” Harvey threw a slim file at him.

"Okay.” Mike answered a retreating back.

* * *

Mike had no idea how to file a patent.

"Rachel?" Mike popped his head into her office, “Do you have a minute?"

"I'm really sorry, Mike. But I'm kind of swamped here" She sounded apologetic, but Mike respected the crazy glint in her eyes.  
  
"Yeah, it's just that I don't-"   
  
"Can it wait?" She sounded desperate. Her desk looked like a library vomited all over it. 

"Yeah. Okay." He gave her a small twitch of the lips before he left. 

* * *

_'need help faking it 'til I make it. :/ ‘_

**_‘_ ** **_say no more’_ **

* * *

"You've taken a step backwards,  young padawan. Fake fed definitely trumps fake lawyer."

"I think you're conflating your criminals, Moz. I'm actually a legit fed," Mike snorted.

"Blasphemy! Now, tell me what you need." Mozzie patted the chair next to him.

"I don't know how to file a patent," Mike sighed.

"They didn't teach this in law school?"

"Ha, ha, very funny. The company’s swamped, understaffed and overworked. You know.” But still not as understaffed and overworked as Pearson Hardman. Yikes. 

"Well, lucky for you, I've forged plenty of these," Mozzie reassured him with a mocking flourish.

Mike gave him a relieved smile.

"Thanks, Moz."

* * *

 

Secondly, no one had to keep up appearances at the CIA. Agents dressed in their undercover gear were frequently seen at their desks, writing reports before returning to duty, so Mike never took much stock in what people wore. The opposite was true at Pearson Hardman.

"Your suit is rumpled."

"Tie's crooked."

"Tie's  _wrinkled_."

"Same tie as last week."

"Same  _suit_  as last week."

"Unless you just gave a blowjob in the supply closet, that hair is unacceptable."

Mike gave his boss the stink eye.

"I could sue you for sexual harassment."

"Didn’t you threaten René with that? Touch luck; _I_ represent him," Harvey declared smugly.

"You have a hair out-of-place," Mike replied acidly. He smirked when he saw Harvey's fingers twitch.

"Your ties are too skinny, rookie." Mike rolled his eyes.

"René said that they were fine."

"He's getting old; he's allowed a mistake or two." Harvey clicked his tongue.

"Is that _your_ excuse?"

_Burn._

Harvey's shocked face gave way to his normal poker face, but Mike could see that he was pleased.

"Puppy's got some bite to his bark."

There was a quick smile before he placed a hand on Mike's shoulder and with the other flipped through Mike's highlighted pages.

"Not bad, but I needed the Kosher briefs two hours ago.”

“The deposition is next week!” Don’t pout, Ross; it’s unprofessional.

“No whinging. I need them when I say I need them, rookie,” Harvey smirked.

* * *

 

No matter how many people hinted at dropping his ties (René, Harvey, Neal, Donna, a terrifying conversation with Jessica), Mike won’t ever let them go. He bought a skinny tie after every hit, a tradition that started after her saw the crystal meth blue one after he nailed a Colombian drug lord.

They remind him of his humanity because once upon a time Mike had normal ties, but before the year passed, they were buried under a pile of skinny ones.

He wore them to Pearson Hardman as insurance, to remind himself that he was a fraud, not a lawyer.

* * *

 

_What?_

"What?"

"Tennis game at the gym. Partner/associate bonding time."

And that was how Mike had to stare at Louis' sweaty legs in shorts for an hour, and then walked into benches in the locker room as he tried to avoid Louis' nudity.

"He's odd," came an amused voice by his ear. Mike yelped and whirled around.

"Tom! I didn't know you went here!" Said man chuckled.

"I didn't think you went to gyms either, Mike."

"I'll have you know that the ladies dig the baby face."

"Do you know each other?"

Mike and Tom looked at Louis simultaneously before averting their eyes.

"Uh, Louis? Could you put some clothes on?" Mike begged.

Tom grunted in agreement.

"How do you know each other?" There was a calculated kind-of-a-smile-but-also-a-sneer on Louis’ face.

"We have mutual friends," Mike answered. There was a thoughtful look on Louis’ face that had Mike’s instincts buzzing.

" _Oh,_  well Mike here-" Louis threw his arm around Mike's shoulder, who winced, "-is a new associate at Pearson Hardman. Since you know each other, you know that Mike wouldn't screw you financially-"

Mike mouthed a 'sorry' to Tom who gave a small sigh, but agreed to switch his business to Pearson Hardman as long as Mike ran point.

* * *

 

Mike’s drug test came back with fake results, which he knew about because he asked Lola to hack into the company and send him the real results that morning. (Reynolds always said that he had wonderful instincts.)

He wondered why Louis faked them until the man asked, “Do you guys smoke pot together?”

Oh. From that scandal a few months ago, where Tom was caught.  

Well… Trevor may have been the reason they knew each other, but was that any business of Louis’? Unless Louis wanted to blackmail him into _actually_ smoking with Tom to solidify his business?

 _'Maybe we did; maybe we didn't,'_  Mike thought mulishly before calling the partner out on his bullshit.

Two could play this game.

* * *

 

 "Hey, Tom, it's Mike. I have a proposition you might like."

Tom was happy to have (not creepy, not awkward, very suave) Harvey Specter be his lawyer instead of Louis Litt. 

Mike Ross: 1

Louis Litt: 0 

* * *

 

"So... about this rookie dinner..." Mike asked hesitantly.

Harvey looked up from his desk.

"Er... nevermind... I'll ask Rachel," Mike mumbled as he scurried away.

* * *

"Rookie dinner?"

Rachel glared at him.

"I'm a little busy here, Mike."

"Um... I'm really freaked out?"

She sighed.

"Look, the last two associates were Kyle and Harold. Kyle had his at a strip bar, and Harold had his at a campus bar, which is pretty much a strip bar. You're not up against stiff competition."

"So... this rookie dinner doesn't matter?"

She gave a small laugh.

"It matters; it's your chance to show off your blue blood, or as much blue as you have. You want it to be classy, but affordable to you, with a good atmosphere. Just pick a place that you like."

_The hot dog cart four blocks away?_

"Ok," he sighed.

* * *

 

_i need 2 take u out to dnner?_

**_I’ll wear the dress you like._ **

_dude. any1 works. for fake work, work._

**_Is it going to be in my probation area?_ **

_U can pick??! i have a rookie dinner?_

**_‘Say no more.’_ **

* * *

 

"The wine here is superb. Fragrant, with wisps of a flowery scent."

"The fish is a little dry, but works well with the wine."

"No. This place has terrible desserts."

Mike gave a long-suffering stare at Neal.

"It was a duty," the man shrugged. “Mozzie is a connoisseur.”

"Scents like autumn leaves-"

Oh no, not the food sonnets.

"I think we found the place."

They toasted.

* * *

 "Hey Mike. I'm really sorry about brushing you off yesterday-"

"Oh. It's not a problem; I found a place."

" _Really?_ " She was surprised. She’d seen what he brought in for lunch.

"Yeah. Do you want to check it out? I heard that you're a foodie," he asked.

She lit up.

* * *

"Michael! How did you find this place?! It's delicious! I've never even seen it mentioned on any of the food blogs," she struggled between savoring the food and exclaiming how wonderful it was.

He grinned.

"A friend of mine is a foodie too. He found it for me."

"Well, I need to meet this friend of yours. I might be in love," she cooed.

"You'll like him; he likes the arts too. But he's a little old for you."

"Hush you. I can vet my own dates." She slapped him playfully on the arm.

“But really, this place would be the perfect place. I’m excited to eat here for free, again!” she laughed.

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned.

* * *

 

Harvey paid for his rookie dinner, apparently as thanks for Tom Keller, but really, Mike knew he was a softy.

* * *

 

… or buttering him up for the ten pro-bono cases that Jessica dumped on Harvey’s desk.

Neal laughed and said that it was retribution for all the hits Mike had over the years.

“Those were scumbags, Caffrey, and what I was doing was basically pro-bono.”

“No pouting, Ross. You’re a grown man.”

“Shut up, Peter.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, feel free to drop any comments or suggestions, especially if I got something wrong. My entire knowledge of government agencies comes from TV, and I know less than nothing about legal things... so, advice is very welcome. :)


End file.
